


Nothing to Declare Here.

by hephaestiions



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Second Person, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29298999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hephaestiions/pseuds/hephaestiions
Summary: You have to bite down on your tongue– hard– to remember that he is not kitchenware, that you cannot test him with gentle, prodding fingers for breaks, cannot proof him with charms and protection.There is blood in your mouth; it does not overwhelm the parched taste of ash.–He shatters. You watch.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35





	Nothing to Declare Here.

**Author's Note:**

> I am not entirely sure what this piece was born of. Perhaps reading too much Sylvia Plath and Dickinson and Bukowski long past midnight. Perhaps feeling a little out of sorts for the first time in a long time. 
> 
> Anyway, do heed the tags for this one.

You watch him balance his mother’s bone china cups– white, with blue flowers and gold leaves– on the narrow windowsill of your living room, right beside the emaciated corpse of the plant you bought seven months ago. 

He’d been motionless when he heard the weather forecast– incoming storm– fingers tangled loosely in his lap, eyes sharp. The billowing lace curtains caressed his cheek– like his mother used to, like his friends did when he was distraught, like you, like you, _like you_ when you were still allowed to touch him. 

He’d ransacked the kitchen cabinets, denting the silverware, letting pots and pans clash to the floor in a heap that you will sort through once he has gone to sleep, that you will test for breaks and proof with charms– 

You have to bite down on your tongue– _hard_ – to remember that he is not kitchenware, that you cannot test him with gentle, prodding fingers for breaks, cannot proof him with charms and protection. 

There is blood in your mouth; it does not overwhelm the parched taste of ash. 

– 

“I think I would love you even if you were to become a stranger,” he’d said once, into the confessional of your bedroom in the dark. His hands had been tangled in your hair, yours gentle on his hips. One of his ankles hooked behind your knee, the other pressing into the arch of your foot. 

“I think we’ve known each other too long for that to ever happen.”

He’d huffed a breath against your eyelashes. “My father forgot Mother’s name, did you know?” 

You hadn’t. You’d reached forward, pressed your lips to his cheekbone, to the bridge of his nose, to the upper arch of his lips. Affection is simple in the dark. Comfort is simpler when it’s him. 

“He forgot her name, and he forgot who she was, and yet he would smile every time she entered the room. Like she was the sun, and he was a starved sunflower.” He'd hesitated. You had felt it in the gentle tremor of his hands. “It was terribly sweet in that way all pathetic things need to be at their end.” 

You’d kissed him then, tender and fierce, pulling him closer until your chest had hurt from the pressure. 

“I would love you,” he’d reassured, gentle hands trailing down the side of your face, catching on the little scar on your cheek. “Even if I was to forget who you are.” 

– 

The china cups shatter– as they were always meant to– on the cold marble of your floor. The wind rushing in through the window blows the shards everywhere, the bigger pieces scattering behind his legs, the smaller ones turning to imperceptible dust under your sofas. 

“I want,” he says, clearly enunciating for the first time in days, “I want.” 

You wait, because more words overwhelm his ability to vocalise the ones he picks out from the chaos in his brain. 

“I want,” he whispers, slower and steadier, sounding almost like he used to when you knew him, “for something in this house to look like me.” 

His gaze is intent on the bone white pieces near his feet, etched with just enough blue for you to remember what his eyes look like in the mornings.

When he looks up at you, his stare is as distant as the horizon, as grey as the clouds. 

You vanish the broken cups. 

– 

He’d bought a Muggle guitar once. 

You’d come home, covered in sweat and dust and grime, and he’d been sitting on the sofa, smiling up at you, plucking on strings that twanged tunelessly. 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” he’d asked, delighted, tracing a long, elegant finger down the flared wooden sides. “I found it in a quaint little shop selling harpsichords that work without magic.” 

“It is,” you’d said, not really about the guitar. 

He’d caught on, eyes crinkling with genuine joy. 

“It’s a bit like me,” he’d said then, eyeing the guitar appreciatively. You’d almost been jealous of the warmth of his gaze. “It takes time and patience, but it’s worth it in the end.” 

“In that,” you had said, involuntarily poetic, “you are like all music in this world.” 

He had set the guitar aside in favour of pushing closer to you. 

– 

He does not look at you like the sun. In fact, he does not look at you at all. 

The rain fogs up the windows and he presses his open palm to them. They come away wet, and when he wipes them on his face, you realise you do not remember the last time he cried. 

You forget what part of him was supposed to be like music. In fact, you forget his name some mornings because the man who taps his fingers to the beat of the rain cannot– _should not_ – share the name of the man who would drag you out to dance in it. 

_Draco,_ you say, over and over anyway. It sounds like the melody of a song you used to love. 

– 

“When I die, I think you’ll shut the world away,” he’d said. 

You’d looked up from your reports, startled and terrified. But he’d been smiling at the plants in the window, too engrossed in thought to see your expression. 

“You’ll forget to water the plants and you’ll forget to meet Hermione for the lunch dates and you’ll forget to tune the guitar.” 

“I don’t know how to tune the guitar,” you’d said, thoughtless and anxious, wanting to touch him but unsure of yourself. 

“Don’t you worry,” he’d said, tracing the edge of a leaf. “I’ll teach you before I die.” 

“ _Why_ are we talking about–”

“People die,” he’d said, turning to you with raised eyebrows. 

“Well alright,” you’d said, incensed and hurt. “What about when I die? What will you do?” 

He’d turned away and not spoken to you for seven and a half hours. 

– 

In the aftermath of him, you expect more silence. 

You expect to hear his absence as clearly as you’d heard his presence, but the magpies on the windowsill still twitter, and the wind still blows through open spaces and the sound of your showers are the same as the sound of his used to be. 

You make coffee in the morning and tea in the afternoon and miss his mother’s bone china cups in the upper left cabinet– white, with blue flowers with gold leaves. 

He did not teach you how to tune his guitar, and within the first few months, two of the strings make startling musical sounds, a swan song before snapping. Your throat clogs up with the memory of the evening you found him strumming Elvis Presley, a quiet, private smile on his face.

You do not miss Hermione’s lunch dates. 

There are no plants left to water. 

The world is too full of sound to shut away. Instead, you let it in. 

(You do not mourn him the way he expected you to.)

You find a sliver of blue and gold ceramic between the sofa cushions. Another string snaps. Sunset streaks across the sky. 

(You mourn him anyway.) 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired, just a little by 'Mad Girl's Love Song' by Sylvia Plath. Title from 'So Now' by Charles Bukowski. 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you're in the mood *pleading face* 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: @ohdrarry


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